Shoebox
by xxThe Extra
Summary: Cartman needs to stop cussing, tapping his foot, and selling his body. Kyle can't fix everything, but god knows he'll try anyway. Kyman, future fic.
1. Crimson

**Hey guys, here's this thing I'm writing. It's a story, with characters who do things. It was written with the purpose of being read. Have a go.**

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><p>"<em>I'm a prostitute."<em>

"_You aren't very attractive." "A porn star wouldn't wear make-up that thick." "You're sort of a fat-ass."_

See, if you've never actually done the dirty with a prostitute before, it's probably because you're not fucked-up enough. The thing about prostitutes is, a successful pimp needs all kinds. A lot of people pay money for sex, not 'cause they can't get some off a slut at a party, but 'cause they want to experiment. I've got people who want to fuck me because they've never been with a dude, never been with a cross-dresser, and they've never been with a fatass. These fucktards are just curious, most of 'em.

And the cross-dresser part wasn't my choice. I really thank the boss for that one, especially when these gentlemen call me 'lady' and 'girly'. Hell, if I could I'd curl the crimson skirt I wore today into a ball and toss it in the nearest trashcan, light the whole thing on fire. The shirt's kinda cute, though.

Either way, the male-cross-dresser-fat-ass clusterfuck brings in enough guys to keep the boss happy. Shamelessness is the new black. At least this class act seems to like it.

"Mm. Yeah, you like that?"

Ugh. With an eye roll I mouth a good few obscenities and throw out a fake moan, getting my head pressed further into the mattress for my troubles. Face down is the best position for prostitution, and if I'm lucky I can subtly flip my considerate client the bird before he notices. Kick-ass.

Unfortunately this guy pays well so I have to play nice. Even when he rolls off me I bat my lashes and win myself a ten buck bonus. He seems satisfied enough and I snatch up the cash off the sheets in case he decides to change his mind. Apparently my man of the hour has somewhere to be, because he pulls on his jeans in a matter of seconds, with his back turned to me, so I can't see his face.

"You gonna come around again anytime soon?" I coo, talking to my extra ten. On the other side of the bed I hear him slide his shoes on and stand with an unhappy grunt.

"It always freaks me out when you don't have a woman's voice." He pulls his pants up and fixes his belt.

'If you want a woman's voice you go and fuck a woman,' I think silently, and throw my clothes on. I stand up, walking over to the door and opening it with a flourish. "What's the matter with my voice?"

"I just think always it's gonna be higher pitched." Like he has any right to be complaining. The fucker didn't even answer my question.

I hold the door open for him, and wave good-bye flirtatiously. Good acting pays off, it really does. And the boss found my stash last month, so I'm strapped for cash. I've got to save from scratch all over again, and this time I took the subway and stopped by the library to look up Youtube videos on how to hide boxes underneath your floorboards. I lean against the doorframe and chew on my bottom lip thoughtfully, watching Moneybags' back as he leaves.

When I save up enough money, what am I gonna do with it, anyway? I'd have to find another job first, have something reserved if I wanted to get out of here. And now that all of my money is gone, who the fuck knows when I'll have enough for what I want: six secure months in an apartment, preferably on the other side of the city. Luxury? Forget it. Luxury for me would be living in a white-trash neighborhood with a job that pays enough for food and rent. It sounds pretty goddamn easy before you consider that the boss'd never let me outta here. I've got a very niche market counting on me for late night booty calls, and he wouldn't be able to find a replacement in time to keep it. It's not like he'd kill me or anything; fucker is too much of a pussy for that. He likes keeping himself and his business on the down-low to get out of the way of the Feds. But he sure as hell knows how to threaten people into firing me, kicking me out of house and home, all that. And if I have to leave the city and find a place somewhere else…

It's like, my job's guarenteed. Once you're in prostitution, you're in. Fuck, I want to get out, but—

I've never been on my own before. Not 100%.

"Can you keep it down?"

I jump and snap my head around, finding a slim motherfucker hunched in the corner with a porno mag clenched in his hands. A porno mag? _Really_? My left eyebrow skyrockets.

He glares daggers at me from underneath a Denver Nuggets baseball cap. But it'd be better if I didn't have to go back out again for another customer. My shoebox needs fillin'.

"Wasn't saying anything, sweetie," I say, and flash him a grin.

"You were tapping your foot and whispering 'shit' over and over again." Fuck nervous tics, and fuck me for actually developing one. Fuck _this guy_ for being an asshole. I don't waste anytime in dropping the act.

"Listen, _cupcake_," I growl lowly, "I don't know what a dumbass like you is doing here, because you're sure as hell not paying for anything, but rule number _one_," I slink over and pluck his magazine away, "is you don't bring something like this, somewhere like this." I tear it down the middle and toss it carelessly to the floor. My fake smile plasters its way onto my face again. "The more you know."

"Hey, jackass, I'm supposed to be here," he shouts, springing up from his seat with his face hot and red. "Besides, I'm pretty sure you don't have any right to pass judgment on me. Dressing up like that and sucking dicks for spare change puts you a little lower on society's totem pole, you know?" He crosses his arms challengingly, but still gives off an air like he thinks he's already won.

"Whaddya mean, you're supposed to be here?" I poke him in the chest, and weasel my way into another insult with a sneaky grin. "That hat sure as hell isn't supposed to be here. You look like you hopped on a bus out of suburbia and landed in the red light district, faggot." I reach for the hat but he swats my hand away, and grabs my wrist. He smirks like, hell yeah, prostitutes are weak as fuck, and he's probably about to get me back for that faggot comment, so I punch him in the face.

"Shit! You—shit!" He falls back and slumps against the wall and stares fiercely at me through his fingers, clutching his bleeding nose. He should've known, it was an easy target. Big-ass nose.

"Can you keep it down?" I mimic, internally rejoicing at how I've got a deeper voice than he does, and have to adjust it accordingly.

"You piece of shit! I'm supposed to be a guard, you fuck!"

"Go see a doctor for the nose," I snicker, "and maybe a psychiatrist for the anger issues. And go to the fucking gym if you want anybody to believe the boss stationed you here to protect his income." Before I can trot back into my room, he launches himself at me and pins me to the wall with his arm in a way that's a little too professional for my tastes. And a little too familiar…

I put on my serious face for a second. "Have we fucked before?"

Immediately the pressure lessens, and he almost flinches away from me.

"What? No! Why would you—"

He blinks.

Then he backs up hurriedly, wobbling (from the head wound most likely), and presses himself to the wall behind him. Giving me this look. What did he do, fuck me in his gay hay-day and then get married nice and young, become some kind of homosexual homophobe? Either way, I roll my shoulders and shoot him a smug grin.

"Looks like you recognize me, so tell me—"

"Cartman."

I tilt my head, honestly confused at his wide eyes. You'd think if we'd had sex then he wouldn't be this surprised to see me in the goddamn red light district. And hell, sometimes they ask my name. So it doesn't surprise me.

"Ding ding ding." I roll my eyes and twirl my finger in the air sarcastically. "We have a winner." I stop twirling and start pointing, fishing for a name out of curiosity. Not like I'll see him again anytime soon. "And I should make the check out to…?"

He averts his eyes for a second, then brings his glance back up. Immediately, he drops it again. The hell?

"Dude," he says slowly, gaze fixed at the fascinating juncture whereby the floor meets the wall. He swallows so loud I can hear it. "It's me. _Kyle_."

And he plucks the baseball cap off his head. Puffy, red curls that I've only seen a handful of times. Despite being around him for the majority of my first twelve years of life.

Kyle. Fucking. Broflovski.

He saw me usher a stranger out of my room. He saw me in a skirt and high-heels. I asked him, genuinely asked him, if we'd slept together, because I can't remember all the men who've been in that bed with me. And I've never been as humiliated as I am now. So I run back into my room and slam the door shut, fumble with the lock, and stand in the corner, too antsy to sit.

I tap my foot, and whisper 'shit' under my breath over and over again. _Fuck me_.

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><p><strong>Testing the waters... I wonder how many fans of the elusive bottom!Cartman there are. Hrm. Anyway, hope you liked.<strong>


	2. Stubborn

**Hello, everyone. Thanks for the responses, I really enjoyed reading your reviews. This chapter is mostly about Cartman, how he thinks of his situation and what goes on in his head. I hoped to keep him somewhat in character, because personally I believe Cartman has a lot of insecurities, and he hides behind his narcissism, and apparently high opinion of himself. **

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading.**

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><p>I don't care if I have a quota to meet. I'm not going back out there tonight. I'll give my extra ten to the boss if I have to, but there's no fucking way I'm letting Kyle sneak a peek up my skirt or Jew me into giving him a blowjob. I could practically smell the ass-master oozing off of him. He's a faggot, for sure.<p>

And a goddamn liar. The boss, hire _Kyle_? Biggest buzz kill around? Pinch me, I must be dreaming. Besides, Bossman doesn't hire anybody without one criminal offense, at _least_. He's got standards, even if his employees don't. The boss knows how to run a business, and straight-laced triple-J's aren't part of the equation. So why would Kyle lie, and read porn in one of the boss's apartment complexes, when he could probably be out making megabucks with some Ph. D. he earned from Yale? God fucking dammit.

Maybe his dad gambled away his college money. It's not like I'd know, I moved out of South Park in middle school. Maybe his house caught on fire and they were all such stingy Jews they never bothered to buy insurance. Maybe his brother has a fatal Canadian disease and the treatment sapped up all their funds. Either way, Kyle still probably wakes up in the morning with a big-ass smirk on his face and goes to work at McDonald's during the day and when he gets back home he thinks 'well, at least I'm not letting men fuck me in the ass for a wad of cash every night'. He's still the same bastard he ever was. I'm not going back out there tonight.

It's late, anyway. I got most of what I needed. I'll squeeze the difference out of my shoebox. I _know_ I can always keep living here. The rent is as cheap as I am.

'It's totally cool, Eric,' I think. 'You're not on your own. The boss looks out for you. If you miss your quota, the boss will be easy on you.' I open the bathroom door and wash my face at the sink, massaging my cheeks carefully. 'You've got people on your side. Kyle won't fuck with you, because Kyle doesn't stand a chance.' I walk over to the side of the bed, kick off my heels, and grunt when I toss myself over the sheets. 'The boss' crew is a hundred big, burly men strong.' I hug my pillow.

The pit of my stomach fills with an ugly, churning anger, and I clutch pillowcase pieces in my fists. Because I don't need some fucking bodyguards to shield me from people I could take out in a second. I don't give a damn if Kyle is a head taller than I am. _I'm a man_. My whole body stiffens. The boss doesn't own me. He thinks he does, but he doesn't. He doesn't own jack shit. _I_ choose to stay here and work for him. I'm just waiting, until I have enough money. Enough for six months in an apartment, and I'll be gone. That's the only reason I'm still around, taking it up the ass and sucking cock 'till it's dry. I stay because _I say so_, I stay because…

If I find out I can't go it alone then I'm worth even less than what my customers pay me.

**I stay because I say so.**

I bury my face in the damp cloth and fall unevenly asleep.

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><p>The first thing I do the next morning is prepare myself for all-out, intensive brawl with the new resident Jew. Or a quick K-O from my side. I slept in my skirt last night, which was pretty stupid, but I slapped on my favorite sweats as soon as I woke up. Then I got my stand-up lamp, and tore off the fuzzy purple lampshade to hold the stand like a sword or javelin or some shit. If the kike rears his head as soon as I pull open the door, I'll just jab him in the stomach with the legs on this thing. That'll teach him. It might even break the skin. I get a nice chuckle out of that. I won't even give him the chance to pin me to the wall again, that weak little fucker.<p>

I tiptoe over to my front door gingerly, the floor creaking under me. Kyle can't hear that from out in the hallway. I hope. A bead of sweat runs down the side of my face, and a little surge of adrenaline sends shivers down my back and legs. When I grab the doorknob, holding my makeshift weapon firmly raised, I grin wickedly and throw the door open.

"Ha!" I cry, reveling in my triumph already, yelling with all the _gusto_ I can _muster_, and—

My face falls. The hallway is empty. I peek down the staircase: nothing. The end of the hall: nothing.

My grip loosens on the lamp; it grazes the floor with a soft 'clink'.

I glance around again, just to be sure. Straining my neck to look uneasily down the staircase, I shout.

"Kyle?"

Nobody answers.

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><p>For the first couple days, I stay on my toes. Carry my lamp outside with me every morning. By the fifth day, I've got him figured out; the Jew only shows on Friday nights. There are other guards lingering in the corners of the complex, and I haven't seen red hair on anyone besides the guy who slipped me an extra five bucks Monday night. So either Kyle is gone for good or he works one night a week, and it's only a matter of time until I find out which.<p>

I wait it out until Friday, stare at the ceiling while I'm getting screwed, and think about stabbing Kyle in the bowels with something sharp and rusty. I even 'borrow' some of Claire's weed, to make the time go by faster. Claire's one of the girls on my floor; a real dumbass. She saves up her own cash—her own _cash_—until she has enough for a gram or two, and she blows it all on joints so thin the high lasts a half-hour. She's an idiot, just like the rest of 'em. Take Butters, cut his balls off, and stick him in five different bedrooms. Then put me in the last door on the left, and you've got my entire floor. These are the type of girls who'll let you do them without a condom if you beg enough. Couldn't spell 'syphilis' if their lives depended on it. Pitiful. Stupid fucking Claire gets no mercy for me when I pick her flimsy lock and steal her stash. I'd smoke it while I was making bank but I wouldn't get any thing on the side, 'cause they complain if I get too distracted.

I'm distracted anyway. Kyle comes back tonight. Or not. Whatever. Point is, I get my chance. Lamp leg right in the gut.

The thing I don't plan on is him already being there when I got back from dinner. I don't even have the chance to change out of my fishnets. _Fuck_.

And the floor creaks too damn much. I keep complaining to the guards and the boss's main squeezes and they never do anything about it. So he can fucking _hear me coming_.

He looks up from his porno. I thought I told him not to bring shit like that here. Dumbass.

"Cartman?" It's not a fucking greeting, so I don't send one back. I'm basically at my door anyway, and I've got my key out and the lock is being fiddled with so it's fine and _oh fuck_ I dropped my key not that I'm freaking out or anything or shaking right it's just you know accidents happen and shit happens so I dropped my fucking key and Kyle—

"_Cartman_." I gasp. Kyle has his hand on my shoulder like he's comforting somebody whose cat just died. Jew always liked playing caretaker but I don't remember his advice ever making anything better.

I stare at his nose. It's all bruises and no breaks. Looks like I fucked up again.

"Hands off," I growl, and lift my hand to dig my fingernails into his wrist. I put enough pressure on it and swipe, so look, I actually ended up drawing blood anyways. I liked that more than punching his sharp nose back into his face. The Coon's still got it.

"Shit," he cusses, wrenching his hand away. He looks up, glaring. "Hell, Cartman, what are you doing?" he hisses.

"Hurting you," I snap. "What else? Get the fuck out of here." I jerk my head towards the staircase. "  
>There's the exit!"<p>

"No, shithead, I mean _what are you doing_? You aren't really—"

"Yes, I am really! Wow, ha-ha, real fuckin' hilarious, fat-ass turned failure, pure comedy gold, right?" I shout right into his face, teeth bared. "And what the hell is your excuse for ending up in this shithole?"

He stiffens and moves his head back, but matches my stare. Yeah, didn't think he'd fold that easily.

"I'm a guard," he says slowly.

"Don't give me that bullshit. You're not a fucking guard."

"I _am_. Jesus, Cartman." He looks at my fishnets like they're the first pair he's ever seen and tries not to look grossed out. Probably thinks I don't notice. "Goddamnit, I didn't come here to argue with you."

"Yeah?" I scoff, shaking my head. "If you weren't looking for a fight then why— why are you taking out your wallet?" The Jew reaches deep into his pocket and fishes out worn leather. _With money inside_. I stare at him. He must be joking. Thinks making fun of me is good shit, and he's trying to scare me, or—

"Five hundred dollars," he says firmly. And he holds it out like he wants me to take it. I stare, eyes popping out of my head. I can't. Not with _him_. It's more than everybody else gives me, but—the last stab to my dignity will not be dealt by ginger-Jersey-Jew Kyle fucking Broflovski, pushing five crinkled bills at me. Beads of sweat collect on my face. My throat is dry.

"I don't want to do that with you." I practically whisper it. I swallow thickly. Claire can probably hear how panicked I am from down the hall behind closed doors, even though I'm being quiet, and she won't ever help me because she knows where all her pot disappeared to. My palms are perspiring, and I hurriedly wipe them off on my short, short shorts.

"Jesus, Cartman," he says, in the same tone as before. He looks at me desperately. "Jesus, Cartman. The money is just for the time. I just want to _talk_ to you."

"Y-yeah, well, I—I don't want to do that either."

"I'm offering you help."

I laugh shortly, get a little bit of breath back in me. "I can make that much in a night if I want to, you don't need to help me with that."

"How could you even think that's the issue here?" His mouth is open, gaping actually, until he gets frustrated. "Cartman, you should leave right now," he barks.

I toss my hands up in the air. "Where the hell am I supposed to go?"

"You should have money somewhere. Some saved up. _Something_."

"I don't have any money, jackass," I spit.

"You could've saved some if you wanted to. I know you, Cartman. What happened?" He always plays the nice guy. So fucking eager to help. I'm twenty-two. I haven't seen him in _ten years_. What does he expect me to tell him, the truth?

The boss's men took nearly all of my shoebox money. Like they took it six months ago when I almost, _almost_ had enough. Like they found it a year ago when I was a hundred shy of leaving. I always hide it somewhere different, but they always find it anyways.

Because I never make it that hard to find. You can tell which floorboard I hid my shoebox under this time, and when they come looking, they'll find it. I'm one-hundred percent certain they'll find it again.

"I don't have any money, kike, as much as you'd love to get your hands on it."

"I took five hundred out of the bank for you, and you still call me cheap." He fumes quietly, shaking his head and stuffing his cash into his pocket. Doesn't bother placing it back in his wallet. "I'm not gonna _leave_ you like this, Cartman." His voice sounds too determined. I don't like it.

"I need to go get ready," I murmur, grabbing my key off the floor. The Jew stands at my back silently, appraising me, before I finally get my lock undone, and step inside.

I hate him. And when I bring a customer back to my apartment tonight and see Kyle crouching in the corner with five hundred dollars burning a hole in his pocket? I'll make sure I'm extra noisy.

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><p><strong>Cartman always tries to trick himself into thinking he's happy being an asshole and alone. I'm really excited for the start of the newest round of episode in October. I think having Kyle as a real friend would change how he acted, because Kyle is one of the only people he respects and thinks of as his equal. I'm really too much of a nerd for these two.<strong>

**There are a few twists to the story that are coming up in the next or fourth chapters. If you have any constructive criticism, there's always room for improvement. Hope you enjoyed reading.**


	3. Armor

**Chapter Three. Next chapter is a turning point, I believe, unless I drag it out longer. I'm not sure if I've been writing Cartman too in-character, but if he was put into this position then I'm sure he would change a lot, just like anybody else. Hope you enjoy it.**

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><p>Friday nights from seven to twelve is Kyle's shift. He never misses a Friday, and he never comes late. The six Fridays since he started working, he gets there on the minute or a few before. Punctual bastard.<p>

I put up my guard every time I walk out the door and the first few Fridays he tries to stop me. Gives me the usual pity parade and shaky voice routine, but it's in one ear and out the other, and before he can grab me both ears are halfway down the stairs. With my heels clopping on the wood and the creaks in the hallway, he can always hear me coming back. By then he smartens up and doesn't even look my way. And by the fourth Friday he doesn't say much at all. Keeps his mouth shut like he should.

I average three guys a night. I know people who take on five to get a lot on the side, but you wear yourself out that way. The real money is taking a few late night walks, especially near bars. Drunks are easy targets— most of them probably think I've got tits underneath my shirt, even when I open my mouth. So what you do is you offer a blowjob, and if they take the bait then you see if they're really wasted. I mean face-down-in-a-urinal wasted. And you pick your poison: suck 'em off and they'll be too shit-faced and complacent to notice they just handed you three fifties instead of the twenty-five you asked for, or, try to knock 'em out if you think they'll go down fast and basically mug the alcoholic fuckers. Only problem with it is half the guys have already drank their funds down to zero and you might get bruised up if the guy isn't drunk enough to take a fall after one punch. If your face gets hit too bad you can wave good-bye to any extra you had a chance at. Nobody likes paying for black and blue.

Recently I'm not getting too lucky with my bar bait routine, and with Kyle probably trying to burn a hole through my door with his green-eyed glare I'm really off my game. The kike, just being there, makes my blood boil. Him keeping his distance doesn't make it any better: I can tell looking at him that the only word running through his mind is _pity_ in big sappy self-righteous lettering.

Point is, he's a pain in my scantily-clad ass, and unlike everyone else he isn't paying me to tolerate the ache. I need shoebox money. So, after _tres muchachos_ on Friday number seven I head out to make it _cuatro_. Jewface keeps his eyes pegged on the ceiling, since he learned his goddamn lesson and stopped trying to look the part by bringing his pornos. He's used to me heading out later, bar bait routine, remember? Not that he knows where I'm going.

When you work into the early morning instead of clocking out at night, the customers get a hell of a lot weirder. Actually works in my favor. This time I get some kind of ethnic motherfucker, who looks less black or white and more like gray. Subtle limp in his walk. With these hours you've got to pick people you know can't do damage if they ever tried. I swear to god at least a fifth must be fresh out of therapy, hopped up on medical hallucinogens. They must have shit like that.

This guy checks out. Has a pocket full of bills, no freaky twitch. So I flash him a smile and take him back to my room—well, I try to.

_Christ_, I didn't think Kyle was this much of an asshole. The Jew fucking blocks my door for chris'sake. Puffs himself up when he sees he's taller than both of us by significant inches.

"Who's this?" he asks, gesturing to #4. I decide to humor him, because he'll be moving out of my way in a few seconds anyway, so why the fuck not? I raise an eyebrow, looking over my shoulder at my customer.

"Jonathan," Mr. Gray says. Goddamn, even his voice is bleak. I've got fifty dollars on clinical depression. I grin back at the Jew.

"Right." Kyle sighs deeply. He probably sleeps normal hours every other night. Fridays must be killing his body clock. I smirk, and he turns to look at me with tired eyes. "Look, Cartman, call it a night, will you? You've done your usual already."

"I'm taking on another. I can do that if I want. It's none of your business," I snarl. This next remark is a personal jab, so I lean in close and poke him in the chest. "And I'm getting sick of you trying to stroke your ego by pretending you're my knight in shining armor."

His face contorts, predictably, out of fatigue and into anger. I brace myself for when he shoves me away, spits in my face, whatever he's planning. I tilt my head to the side and ask 'are we clear?' with my eyes. Gotta keep up the full-of-it façade even when I'll have a purple mark to regret in a few hours.

But the Jew doesn't hit me or push me, or anything. God, I know he wants to, I can see the veins popping out of his forehead. But he clenches his fists by his sides instead and turns his rage over to that unlucky bastard Jonathan. What a sorry piece of shit. He's in for a world of hurt, because Kyle means business.

The Jew nudges me smoothly out of his path before I make a move to jump between them again, make sure I've still got my bonus for the night. Seeing Jonathan get his ass handed to him on a silver platter would be damn satisfying but it's not my satisfaction that's gonna get me paid.

"See here, Kyle," I growl, my hand almost to his shoulder, "you don't touch—oh, _fuck_."

Before I can grab his attention, before Jonathan can hightail it down the stairs, Kyle whips out a shiny black gun and when he clicks the safety off I swear I'd still be able to hear it if I was a hundred miles away. Holy shit.

My eyes slide over the weapon carefully. Like my stare could pull the trigger. He holds it so skillfully. He's had _training_. And when I look up, I can tell by his face that he's shot it before. My throat feels dry.

Jonathan pissed his fucking pants. Kyle has the thing pointed right between his eyes. But he talks to me first.

"Not doing this tonight, Cartman."

I clam up. He turns back to the man on the floor, who I swear whimpers under his breath.

"So you were touching one of our employees here in a way he didn't like," the Jew says smoothly, "and you had no cash on you, to boot. You were acting pretty crazy, kind of violent, and I don't think it'd be a stretch to tell my boss you were a _threat_." He holds the gun steady, no sweat, no shaking. No bullshit. "And I think, if I shot you, nobody would come running to help." His eyes narrow. Jonathan looks like he's already halfway to hell. "Why don't you head home, Jonathan? Your empty bedroom misses you."

As soon as Jonathan scurries home on all fours in soiled pants, the gun comes down. A huge, trembling breath comes out of me, because that? Wasn't bluffing. _I_ bluff, _I'm_ the liar. Kyle isn't. I clutch at my purse. I've been at gunpoint maybe five times before. Doesn't mean my knees are gonna shake any less.

Kyle puts the safety back on his gun, makes a disgusted face and mutters under his breath. "Scumbag."

"_You!_" I gasp, my quivering finger pointing straight at him. "The fuck were you _thinking!_ Okay, so, _shit shit shit_, that was _my customer!_ And you pulled a fucking _gun on him!_ Were you gonna point it at _me_, too, if I told you to stop?" Kyle looks at me like he's just so fucking _stunned_ by my dirty mouth, and I feel upset, not scared, but furious, nervous, god I want him _gone_. "Shit, shit, shit shit _shit_—"

"Cartman," Kyle says, with a firm tone, "I wasn't planning on shooting anybody." He waltzes over to me with steady legs. Pulls my fingernails out of my mouth, guess I was chewing on them. I slap his hand away.

"Yeah, 'cause you knew he wasn't stupid enough to stick around! And put your gun away," I croak. And he does it without a fight, slips it under his belt. My eyes flit across his face, everything about him calm, with _perfect_ composure. I feel like shit. I don't want him looking at me anymore, and I never want him touching me. And I wish he'd stop trying to _help_. But he doesn't get it, he's too goddamn moralistic, too full of guilt he tricked himself into feeling, too kind. He still stares, acting like he's right on the brink of saving me.

"You can't be that mad at me, can you? I'm doing you a favor, I—"

"I don't need any favors!" I screech. Kyle goes silent. "I don't want your help, I don't—I'm not doing this right now. Leave me alone. I fucking hate you!" Just to defy me, probably, he snatches my arm up and turns me to face him. I try really hard to glare.

"Yes," he tells me, sounding urgent and looking desperate, "you do need favors. You're a fuck-up."

"I'm not a fuck-up," I say. In a very small voice.

"You don't have to be if you let me help you. Cartman, you can—"

I lash out at him, ripping his hand from my arm and throwing it back at him, full-force. I plant my feet, in case he retaliates, and shout and scream about shit that might get him to leave me _alone_.

"Why did you have to pull out a fucking gun on him!"

"It's policy, Cartman, I'm supposed to carry a gun with me!" Kyle stands his ground, spitting fire right back at me. Face turning redder.

"You're not supposed to point it at people! The last guard never pointed it at people!"

"The last guard got his ass fired!"

"You don't _need_ this job, you could've worked somewhere else, fuck you, Kyle, why did you—"

"_You_ could work somewhere else too—"

"I can't make a fucking living off a McDonald's salary! They don't offer fucking room and board with a small fry on the side!"

"So you don't have to work at a trashy fast food place, you can—"

"Goddamit, Kyle, just shut your fucking Jew mouth for one second—"

"Why, give me a good reason, why you can't work—"

I scream at him for all I'm worth.

"_I didn't finish middle school, alright!_ I left South Park and things went to _shit_ and I didn't fucking make it to high school!"

His face softens, because he's got so much goddamn sympathy, but he keeps his volume up. As soon as he opens his mouth again I cut him off. I hate him. I hate how he thinks he can solve all my problems. I hate how he's above me in the chain of command, and I hate how he's allowed to carry a gun.

"Cartman—"

"So sure, I could risk it, and leave, and maybe if I saved I could do it, but I don't have any money, I don't have an education, and there are fucking _college graduates_ working for Wal-Mart and I couldn't pull it together fast enough so now I'm fucked, just fucked up the ass_, literally_, and if I can't do it, can't make it, then I really am a fuck-up, right?"

I don't feel like myself.

I hate it when I have to admit that there's nothing in me ten-year-old Eric would be proud of. I get to feeling so tired that I can't even be an asshole. If I can't be an asshole the only thing left is to be honest. I mean, there's not really much to me.

He puts a hand on my shoulder because I stopped moving. But I make sure I look at my feet, not his face.

"Cartman, you know the building two blocks down with the broken neon sign? You need to be behind that at midnight tomorrow." His fingers squeeze gently. "I know you hate listening to me, but, just be there, okay?"

He lets go.

My nails are digging hard into the straps on my purse, and my jaw's set tight.

"Don't count on it."

I trudge back into my room and slam the door. Pull out hard liquor. Drink a little. Swear a lot. Lie down on the bed without putting on sweatpants and close my eyes. I think about Jonathan for awhile and every time I remember what he looks like he gets uglier. So I guess Kyle saw him like that right off the bat. Kind of gross. The fucker had a stain on his shirt, grubby with something.

Grunting, my shoes come off. I flex my toes and rub the soles slowly, in big circles. Then I flick off the light and keep rubbing in the dark, appreciating the calm in my stomach. Like relief.

Kyle's still outside in the corner right across from my front door. He's such an asshole.

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><p><strong>Kyle is much more of a bad-ass than people give him credit for. He doesn't take shit lying down. He doesn't give up easily, especially if he feels any semblance of guilt. I could see him pulling out a gun like this. He wouldn't ever shoot it though, even if Cartman thinks he would.<strong>


	4. Dirt

**Hey guys, sorry for the long wait. I wanted you to know I really appreciate all the feedback I've been getting, it's really encouraging. If you've got any tips for my writing, I'd appreciate that, too. **

**Here's the next chapter of Shoebox.**

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><p>There's no way in hell this building is younger than I am. It used to be boarded up, at least in the front doorway, but that didn't stop bricks and shit from falling off. So when somebody came by and ripped the door clear off its hinges, the GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS sign was already cracked straight down the middle and nobody gave enough of a fuck to keep it from getting any worse. Would've been a tall order, anyway. The last thing I saw crawling out of there was a three-legged cat chasing a three-legged mouse. Looks to me like the place is a haven for Nature's shit stains.<p>

I don't go past it when I work, usually. I've got my spots and then maybe I'll go that way for my bar bait routine but there's other places that have better turn-outs. The whole block could be cut out of the street and thrown over the city's shoulder for all anybody cares. Walking through it is a waste of my goddamn time. And the type of people who live there won't be living for much longer. Half of them have a hell of a debt, one that's still shooting up like a geyser, and the other half can't afford anything medical.

But I guess if the Jew wants a secret meeting place he could've picked somewhere worse. He wants to do more than shoot the shit, I can tell. If he didn't he would've just cornered me last night when my palms were so covered with sweat I almost couldn't turn my doorknob.

I don't know if he'll bring his gun or not. I was thinking I could run if he decides I'm so much of a fucking threat that he needed to pack heat. I mean, if I'm racing a bullet, then fat chance I'll get away, but I don't think he'd pull the trigger in the first place if he really wants something out of me. Besides, he keeps the barrel tucked into the front of his pants so if he's stupid enough to put a gun that close to his dick then I bet I can outsmart him.

I hate his gun. But he did something okay with it when he sent Jonathan limping down the stairs even if it was the same as throwing money out the window. Really it was only halfway okay 'cause my shoebox is running dry. I'll think back to it later and then it won't seem okay at all, probably. Jew's still a Jew, Jew hair, Jew hands, Jew fingers wrapped around a gun that did one thing that's okay, for now. Rock bottom is where I start to trust him.

Only reason I'm trekking out here is to see if he keeps up his good streak. I made a bet with myself, that if he does something right I take the night off tomorrow. Just to sleep, like a reward. It'll be another dip in my savings, but I expect a slap on the wrist, max, for not going out on the town. Even if he's got thick arms, the Sunday night guard wears a _beret_, for chrissake. Sometimes I wonder if the boss is even trying, or if he even gives his employees a passing glance anymore. I still don't think he knows a damn thing about Kyle, and I guess I don't either. Took me a little while to believe the Jew had touched a burner before.

Mostly I want to know what he did with the gun the first time he shot it. Where'd he aim it? Leg? Arm? Kneecap? Head? I want to know if he killed somebody. I wouldn't be scared of him or any of that shit. I just want to know, if I called him a murderer, would it be enough of a blow to his Messiah complex to make sure he isn't sitting squat in his corner when Friday night swings around again?

Leaning against the cold brick back of the building, I tuck my hands into the skinny pockets on the outside of my skirt and kick at an old cigarette. It only looks half-smoked. What a waste.

I guess either way I can fuck with Kyle's head, whether he shot somebody in cold blood or blew one of his toes off.

"Cartman?"

I jump, and flip my head to him fast like a switchblade. He must have been slinking around the corner like a fucking cat because he didn't make a sound. And he stands ten feet away with a soft smile on his face, and a little bit of surprise in the curve of it. Stupid Jewish cunt.

"Kyle," I say curtly.

He takes a few steps closer, and when the wind catches his open jacket, I check his waistline for his gun. It's in a holster this time. Fancy shit, Kyle.

"You came late," I growl, bringing my eyes back up. "You said you'd be here at twelve."

"I'm sorry." He pulls his face down into an apology, and stops in front of me. He's going the nice guy route, like I fall for that bull when a customer uses it on me. I take my hands out of my pockets and clench them into fists behind my back. If he gives me the opportunity to hurt him, I'll take it.

"So what's your angle, shithead? What do you want? My legs are getting cold." It's true, but it's not like they'll get warm once I leave. I need another man tonight. Kyle checks the time on his phone for a second and I tap my foot to keep the blood flowing. I can see my breath curling into the air when he shrugs and looks up again.

"I just think it'd be good to talk for a little while." He looks me in the eye when he says this. Thinks he's a psychiatrist, got to look 'em in the eye, got to establish trust or some shit like that. I scoff and uncurl a hand to inspect my fingernails and show him I'm bored with this.

"We talked before, and if you weren't a greedy fucking Jew you would've heard all you needed by now."

He sighs. I smile, like I'm saying, 'I'm a stubborn piece of shit, you know that, Kyle.'

And then he asks, "When did you give up?"

My eyes narrow to slits and my smile drops to the ground so fast I swear I hear it smack the dirt. I bring my fist into view at my side.

"The fuck did you say, Jew?"

He stands in a firm pose, and rubs his hands together, breathing on them, before he decides to stop keeping me waiting. His eyes look me over, and they don't skimp on the pity.

"I really hated everything about you in elementary school. The ground you walked on to the hair on the back of your neck. But later on, middle school especially? I liked your ambition. You had a lot of it."

I take a menacing step forward, baring my teeth. Didn't wear lipstick today. Good. I look more threatening like this.

"If you called me here to shit on me, kike, you weren't thinking straight."

He frowns. "I'm still armed, Cartman."

"You said last night you wouldn't hurt me with it. Thought you prided yourself on keeping true to your word or whatever moralistic _bullshit_ you spout." I snicker lowly when he turns pink.

"You kept your shitty attitude, Cartman, I can tell, but you really did get rid of your drive."

I'd snap his neck if I could, that fucking bastard. He shakes his head and lifts his hands into the air just to wave them around like he thinks he's making a point.

"Even if you were wrong, hell, at least you stayed standing," he tells me. "The reason I don't like this, you being here, isn't because of your— your profession, it's because _you aren't even trying to get out_."

I run forward, grab the front of his jacket and with a jerk pull him close to me. For a quick second he looks afraid. Thank the fucking lord, I can still do that to people, make them look afraid.

"We went over this, you fucking idiot!" I snarl. "Why I'm not leaving! I'm being fucking reasonable for once, so what's the goddamn problem?"

And instead of pushing me off of him he grabs _my_ shirt, and blood starts pounding in my ears, fast, and loud. The air is so cold, his breath is so hot, I feel like I'm in a fucking incinerator.

"Cartman, it never mattered to you what was reasonable or sensible, or shit, I don't know, whatever it was you were never scared of trying! I thought that was _cool_!"

He says it like he dropped a bombshell and I'll be on my hands and knees begging for help because once I had something the Jew thought was worth looking up to, and now I'll want to get it back. I scowl my worst scowl, suddenly trying to wrestle out of his grip.

"Let go!" I bark, and fall back on my ass. On the fucking ground again. I scramble to stand up, brush the dirt off my skirt, look put together, while he watches. "Let me go! I'm not staying here so you can try and fuck me up!"

Still dirty. Get that fucking dirt off my skirt.

And while I'm frantic and panicky and swiping my thick fingers over the hem he grabs my arm and clamps a hand over my mouth and shouts, "Listen!"

He doesn't take his eyes off my face, and his grip doesn't loosen enough for me to struggle. I know the gun is there where he can grab it, in his fancy fucking holster. Kyle could shoot me in a second, he'll give me his villain speech and then shoot me in the gut because that's where it'll hurt and I'm fat so it'll be fucking _ironic_. So I shut my eyes hard.

My foot starts tapping.

_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit._

"Do you hear that?" he says quietly. He doesn't mean the tapping. I open one eye. "Just listen to it, Cartman."

I hear it. From behind us, I hear it. It's sirens.

Like _police_ sirens.

"Cartman," he breathes, right on my face, "those police sirens, they're going over to your complex."

No way.

"You know, your boss? He—goes there, goes around to all the places where his people work, and he goes to your place on Fridays and Saturdays."

Kyle's shift is Friday, seven to twelve, and he's always on time, and he never misses a Friday. Punctual bastard.

No fucking way.

"I'm a police officer, Cartman. They put me there undercover to investigate, and to check out the layout. You know, make sure it was safe? For when they take your boss down."

He handles his gun like he's had training. _Academy_ training. No. Fucking. Way.

"We had a lot of people on the job, Cartman. It'll be on the news tomorrow, and in the papers. Your boss, he's a big man, important—they're planning to arrest all the prostitutes they find in there. Cartman?"

His hand comes off my mouth. I gasp, really loud, even though I could still breathe. Kyle is a cop. A good guy who stands guard and saves my ass from getting tossed behind bars. One of the boys in blue. Law-abiding citizen. It's so fucking fitting.

"Cartman? Hey—"

_Thud_. The Jew reels back and stumbles to his knees, gripping his nose while his palms pool up with blood.

My fist is making a home for itself pummeling flesh back into Kyle's face. And I don't have a home at all.

"That's my fucking place you jackass!," I screech, "That's where I live! I'm homeless! I'm jobless! I don't have anything, I have—I have—" _I have to get out of here_.

Suddenly I feel a grip on my ankle, like stepping into a bear trap, and I get dragged back down to Kyle's level. In a second flat he has me on my back with his arm bracing me there. I struggle, oh, man, I fucking struggle. But he keeps me there. I flail around. I grip at the pavement beneath me. I try to dig my nails into his side.

He puts all of his strength into keeping me there and his nose bleeds onto my shirt until I can feel it sticking to my skin. At least I got one hit in, and it counted, goddamnit.

"No way in hell will I let you do this, Kyle, you Jewish piece of shit! No way in hell are you taking my place away!"

He pants a little bit and puts some extra pressure down when I wriggle my legs. Dryly, he smiles.

"You're wrong about that, Cartman, but I like the attitude."

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><p><strong>Anybody see the twist coming? Next chapter, Cartman continues to be a sarcastic bitch. I'll bet you can't wait!<strong>


	5. Rinse

**Sorry for the long wait. This one's a bit longer. Will try to get the next chapter out much sooner. Thanks for sticking with!**

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><p>After he smiled I gave up fighting him. But I struggled just enough to make sure keeping me down wasn't easy. I wanted to make sure he couldn't wipe the blood off his face, just to make him feel uncomfortable, make him squirm, stain my shirt red some more. God, I'm so fucking tired. But it makes me feel better with a wet spot of warmth on my chest, means it was a close fight. For as long as he keeps bleeding I can sure as hell pretend it was a close fight.<p>

I jerk my left side up in a fast jibe, just to fuck with him, but I catch him off guard, could've tipped him if I'd put more heart into it. My eyes go a little wide when I think, shit, he's tired too. But he pulls himself back together and gets balanced, and glares at me.

"Don't give me that look," he says, voice sounding slick from the blood running down his throat. "We both fucking know you can't outrun me."

"I hope you puke blood," I snarl. He looks down at me like he's bored, without saying anything. "_What_, Jew?"

"I'll get off you right now if you promise you'll stay right here," he says, suddenly serious. I almost try to spit in his face, before thinking that gravity isn't that kind.

"You want me to lay here on the ground, and have you, what, piss on me, or something? You get off on that, sicko?" He balks and rolls his eyes and shakes his head feverishly, staring at the brick wall in front of us.

"God, how do you even fucking come up with this shit? Why would I _ever_ piss on you!" Ten years later and he still doesn't know how to turn the other cheek, as much as he thinks he does. Could've told you that the day he didn't pack up and leave after seeing me fresh after work that first Friday night. "Just tell me I can let go and then sit up against the wall or something. _Jesus_."

"Just stop touching me already," I shout, louder than I thought. Still gets him off of me, and he blinks too many times after he takes a seat on my right and stares at me.

I heft myself up and roll my neck. Sirens in the background finally faded off. My place is probably still crawling with Our City's Finest, searching every fucking nook and cranny 'till they find what they're looking for or enough money that they don't care anymore. They must've found my money, by now. A box of cash nobody important will miss. Fucking bullies should get castrated.

"I hate you," I bark at the Jew, who's still looking at me. I eye him angrily before I look down, pulling sticky cloth off my skin. My shirt feels disgusting and I smell like iron. There's a wind blowing through the alleys, in between all of these buildings, and when it brushes past me my chest feels cold.

I'm so exhausted. I can feel my legs trembling even after I prop myself on the wall behind me, rough brick at the back of my shirt snagging on the fabric. I feel the back of my head and my hair's covered in dirt, old cigarette ashes, something terrible, and I bite my lip hard and force my eyes drier. I'm not doing that with Kyle here where he can see, behind an empty square shell and a near empty street. I'd rather scream until my throat was dry and cracked than cry with him here.

"Hey." He waves a hand in front of my face.

I clear my throat and put a sour look on my face. He keeps talking.

"Cartman, do you know what you're doing after this?" he asks. Speaking like I'm a lost puppy with no tags. "Where are you going to go?"

I shrug. Stick with the usual plan, I guess.

"Wherever, Jew. Another district. Get a new place. New boss." Buy a new pair of shoes and find some spare change to stick in the box. I look over at him wearily and I really think he's gonna puke blood. He looks nauseous. "You throw up on me and I'm leaving right now," I say warningly.

"Cartman, you're not serious, are you?" He talks cautiously, light pain in the words. The fuck is it from? His nose must've stopped hurting by now. He wiped most of the blood away. I watch him incredulously.

"What do you _want_ me to do?" I ask him.

It's an honest question. What does he want? What does he _expect_? This is what I know how to do. I told him that, and I told him I didn't want any help. I just want to sleep.

He looks me dead straight in the eye and puts his hand on my shoulder.

"Cartman, what I said, before, about it not being the prostitution that bothers me, that's a lie. It's a lie. The other part, your attitude, it bothers me, too. It all bothers me." He sounds like he's begging. I take his hand off my shoulder and let it drop.

"It's not _about you_," I growl. "I'm—" He pulls me quick into an awkward hug where I can feel his holster pressing into my side. It takes me a few seconds to respond, but then I'm sure as hell responding. "God, fuck, Jew—get off!" I untangle my arms from this fucking mess and push him away, but he holds me out at arms' length anyway and looks at me like we're in a Hallmark movie.

"Come stay with me," he says quietly. He's got that begging look again. He has more empathy than I do feeling. And he's fucking _crazy_.

"What, are you— shit, are you insane?" I shrink away from him and move a few inches to the left, trying to put distance between us. I catch myself before I can even start biting my nails and clutch my skirt in my fingers instead. "I'll fucking, like, steal your shit! Or something! I-I hate you!" I shouldn't even have to say no or give reasons why not. He shouldn't even have asked.

"Cartman, come on," he says pleadingly. "You said it's my fault that you don't have a place anymore. Use mine. I'm taking responsibility."

"You're taking _too much_ responsibility! Just let me go and forget about it!"

"You know I won't do that, Cartman."

And I almost get up and walk away. I almost do. It's so late and he's talking so quiet I think, this is his last ditch effort before he really lets me jump overboard and calls me lost at sea. He won't even come after me if I go. He'll go home and puke up blood and lie down and start to forget because he won't have a choice. I almost get up.

It starts to rain.

I feel a few drops on my head first. Then, the ground around me gets dark in splotches. I want to leave so badly. So, so badly. But I'm so tired, and I feel so fragile right now, and after it starts raining the only thing I can think is that I'm going to die. I'm going to die out here with Kyle's blood on my shirt and I don't even know where my mother lives anymore and I don't have a penny to my name and I'm going to die. If I leave…

I wait a few seconds with my eyes closed and when I open them Kyle's still there. He doesn't touch me or anything. He just decides to wait, I guess. He waits for a few more minutes.

I nod.

He exhales, like his breath is dense and heavy, and says, "Thank you." Then he picks himself up like it's no problem and offers me a hand. For my big defiant finale, I don't take it. I lift myself up with the wall for support. When I'm finally standing, I wonder how the fuck I'll stop my knees from buckling under me.

Kyle grabs my arm tight and walks, like he's leading a criminal. He makes a big show of looking around to make sure nobody sees us and I'm too tired to tell him not to bother. He gives me a tug on the arm and takes off in a jog, and I follow with my legs feeling like they're thick with lead. But there's not a chance I'm telling him to slow down. I won't let him make me feel even weaker.

He loosens his grip when we make it underground, and he wipes at his face again. There's still blood under his nose that's dried there. He catches me looking, and he smiles. I flip him off.

"Can never win with you," he mutters, lips falling back into a line. But he looks happier than that. Getting me to come with him, I bet he thinks he did something important.

We get on the first train. Kyle makes me go before him.

Even for this late there're people on the train. Only a few, and way in the corner. I look at one of them too long and he winks. When I remember I'm not here to make money I shut myself up, and hunch over automatically. I wish my first instinct was still to punch his face in. But instead my hands wander down to my skirt and pull it lower. What am I, embarrassed?

Tonight is all wrong. I don't feel like I always feel. I need it to be like normal again, like normal when I still had a place to live and Kyle was just some twelve-year-old I'll never see again.

Those guys in the back might've started with catcalls or something, and I wish they did so I could remind myself that I always deal with this and that I shouldn't be embarrassed. Too bad Kyle had to flash his holster and shut the fuckers up. Fucking Jew. They catch a glimpse of the blood smears on his face and my shirt after and take off at the next stop.

"I can handle myself, asshole," I hiss, when they're gone. Kyle keeps his eyes looking out the train window.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't patronize me." Kyle looks down at me with a clear question on his face. "Out with it, kike." He sighs and scratches his head, picks a piece of leaf or something from his scalp, there from our scuffle before.

"I'm not trying to make you feel like shit, you know. It's not like I get satisfaction out of proving you need my help." He moves to the doors and pulls me along with him. "Is that what you really think I'm doing?" The doors open and he unhooks his hand from around my arm, right before he takes a long stride out onto the platform. He turns and looks at me. I clutch one of the seats before jumping to his side and hearing the doors close with a _whoosh_ behind me.

"You haven't proven anything," I tell him. He gives me a look.

"Okay."

The Jew leads me outside, and the rain pours down like there's a leak in the sky. We sprint into a store's doorway that's got a little overhang that keeps the water off us, and Kyle starts taking off his jacket. I stare at him and when he tries to hand it to me I won't touch it.

"Don't," I say.

"Look, I'm not trying to be a gentleman here," he tells me blankly. There's only a dim light above him but I can see the bags under his eyes. There're not as dark as mine, I bet. "I don't want my neighbors seeing you with all that blood on you. So just put it on." He pushes it at me.

"What about you?" I challenge him. "You've got blood all over you face still."

He sighs and mumbles "hold this" when he shoves his jacket at me again. I grip it and he leans his face into the rain, with his eyes closed, and lets the water soak him clean. He pulls himself back underneath the overhang and uses his sleeves as a towel.

"Fine," I murmur, and wrap the jacket around my shoulders and push my arms through before zipping up. It looks like it almost comes down to my knees. "_Happy_?"

"Yes." He steps back into the rain and I follow.

By the time we get to Kyle's apartment building both our hair is matted down on our faces and my feet are burning from running so long in these shoes. I take a breather, panting once we're inside and the Jew waits. I give him a death glare, and make a circular motion with my hand. _On with it, asshole_.

"Second floor," he says, "and there's no elevator. Sorry." I groan. "Just take off your shoes if they hurt," he urges, and I hear his teeth chatter for a second since his shirt is drenched in cold rain. I make a big show of sitting on the floor and yanking my shoes off my feet, wincing when they pop off. One of my heels started to bleed, from rubbing up against the back of my shoe with no sock or anything.

"Come _on_, Cartman." Kyle grabs me by the arm again and forces me to stand. I swat him away as soon as I'm vertical, with my shoes dangling from my hand.

"Let's get this over with," I growl.

We make it upstairs with me on my last legs and he takes a minute too long with his key. I walk in first and drop my shoes immediately. Kyle takes his off and then motions for me to follow down the hallway at the right. He opens a door on the left and shows me his bathroom.

"You can take a shower in here, and if you leave the door unlocked I'll drop off some clothes that'll fit you." He rubs his eyes and blinks before taking a deep breath. "There's only one bed. You can take it tonight. I'll fucking sleep on the couch or something. Here, give me my jacket." I toss it at him.

"I'm not wearing your Jew clothes," I say, crossing my arms. "And I'm not sleeping in your bed."

He throws his hands up in the air and turns to walk away.

"Then you sleep on the couch. But the heat doesn't work so great outside of the bedroom so unless you want frostbite, you put on the clothes."

I call out to him when he leaves just to get one final jab in.

"What, you're a Jew and you can't even afford basic heating?"

"I'm a fucking cop, Cartman, I'm poor as shit!"

I slam the bathroom door shut.

I turn on the water and it's suddenly like I'm fucking salivating for a rinse. The water pressure is fan-fucking-tastic. Mine is more like a steady drip than anything. I strip fast and watch the steam flow out over the top of the shower curtain. When I stick a foot in I nearly moan. Shit, that's nice. I pull the curtain back and step in. I let the water beat against my chest and the first thing I do is wipe away anything that looks like the Jew's blood.

I scrub my body and think. It's hard because I'm half-asleep already. But I have to. I'm at the Jew's place, staying with him. I could probably up and leave tomorrow, if he has to work. Does he get time off after completing a mission? Cops are too fucking lame to call it a 'mission'. Okay, completing a 'job', then. Whatever. So, maybe I have a window of opportunity, and maybe I don't. If I do, then I can just walk out the door and Kyle can kiss my ass good-bye. But where am I supposed to go, back down the alley? I'm staying here free of charge, for now. I'll bide my time. Stick around long enough for a good few meals and a few nights of sleep. Worst that can happen is I stay a little longer. It's the Jew's choice to keep me here. I won't owe him jack shit.

I scrub my face, my back, my legs, my hair, 'till I'm raw, then I stand in the shower with the water falling on my back like a masseuse's hands for five short minutes. Then I take a deep breath and shut the flow off.

I grab the towel he set out for me and dry myself up while I inspect the clothes he left me. A pair of plaid boxers with a note that says "Don't worry, they're new." I pull them on. Feels weird. I haven't worn boxers in years. Underneath those are a black sweatshirt with an Adidas logo, and a pair of grey sweatpants with a drawstring that I have to loosen. Besides that it all fits. I try to look at myself in the mirror but it's completely fogged. I use the sweatshirt, with its sleeves a little too long for my arms, to wipe away a clean circle. In these clothes with no make-up I look like a little kid. Or something.

I open the door and wander out into the big front room of the apartment, yawning. Kyle is setting out a pillow and blankets on the couch, smoothing them too carefully. He turns when he hears my footsteps, and looks me over.

"It all fits. Good." He tosses me a pair of socks. "Forgot about those. Like I said, it gets cold." I grunt.

He peels back a bit of the blankets and beckons me over. Wordlessly, I sit and pull the socks on and shimmy under the blankets. I close my eyes and turn my face to the back of the couch. I hear Kyle stand still for a moment. He almost says good night. But he moves away quietly, and the lights flicker out. For a second I feel like I didn't think my plan through enough. Like I need to just take a step back because something's gonna go wrong, and it's not an easy choice between Leave and Don't.

A second after that I fall asleep.

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><p><strong>Thought this chapter was a bit on the iffy side. I tried to show the shift that's starting (in how Cartman is letting himself become more dependent on Kyle) more through actions than words. Not sure how it came out. As always, comments and concerns appreciated. A big thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed so far. <strong>


	6. Wallet

**Long wait, I know. I have only apologies and a new chapter to give. And thanks to everyone who's been reviewing so far. You don't know how much I appreciate it. This chapter seems a bit like filler, but I think it's important to start developing some of their dynamics. Thanks for reading, everybody!**

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><p>"Cartman, what are you doing?"<p>

My eyes feel glued shut but I pry them open slowly, just so I can see Kyle's face five feet above me, looking tired. I grumble and shove my head down deeper into the pillow, trying to get comfortable on the Jew's kitchen floor.

I woke up in the middle of the night and found out Kyle wasn't lying: his apartment turned into some kind of Siberian wasteland and I swear to fucking god I saw my breath twirling around in the dark. I thought my toes were already frozen solid so I got up and took a few laps around the couch. I even checked if Kyle left the fridge open just to fuck with me. And right in the middle of the fucking kitchen was this patch of hot floor that I could feel under my feet. Like a warm water pipe was snaking around down there or whatever. So I took my fucking blanket and pillows and spent the night on top of the heat. Why the hell is the asshole giving me that look? It's called being _resourceful_.

"S'warmer than the couch," I mumble. He sighs and nudges me with his foot. "Ow, stop it."

"Oh, come on. Get up and eat breakfast. I need to talk to you."

I pull the blanket up over my face. The Jew waited weeks to force me into his apartment, he can wait while I pay off my sleep debt. Then he reaches down and snatches my pillow away.

"Goddamnit, Kyle," I whine. I sit up and blink, then glare at him. He's such an impatient little bitch.

"Just get up, Cartman. Seriously."

He walks over to the kitchen table and takes a seat while I stand, crack my back and stare at his apartment. It was dark before, and last night I didn't give a fuck, but in the light there's no question: it's fucking shabby. There's the couch I half-slept on, with a coffee table in front and some magazines in a neat pile and a CD player with a set of speakers. A worn rug underneath with a brown color, no stains. The kitchen, small shelves and small fridge and tight counters. All clean. The round kitchen table with four chairs, one flowerpot centerpiece, and one Jew.

I run my finger over the counter as I pass.

"Jesus, Kyle. Live a little. Staying home with a broom in your hand your idea of a good time?" He gives me a look.

"Grab yourself a bowl of cereal before you sit down. There's some in the cabinet above you. Bowls on your right."

I roll my eyes. What's his fucking hurry?

I reach up and open the cabinet, pour myself a bowl of Cheerios and get milk. I almost go into a state of shock because the drinks in his fridge aren't alphabetized. "No spoon, Jew."

"Drawer next to the stove."

The way Kyle's kitchen works, it's like a U shape, with a sink and fridge against the wall on the right, a stove and drawers against the wall in front, and another arm of storage out to the left. It's small and a huge pain in the ass. The refrigerator door almost hits the counter when it opens all the way.

"Your kitchen sucks. Your whole apartment sucks. How much are you paying for rent?"

He sighs, again. "I told you, I don't make that much. Now, c'mere." I walk over and take a seat next to him and eat a spoonful of cereal. "Okay." He rubs his eyes. "We have to make a plan."

"'Scuse me?" I snort, with my mouth full. "A _plan_?"

"Yes, a _plan_. I'm not set up for another person." He starts counting off on his fingers. "I cleared enough space out of my dresser and closet for you, we can get clothes, underwear and everything, some shoes—"

I cut him off. "And how am I buying all of this, Jew?"

"Well," he starts, and his hand springs to the back of his neck and stays there looking awkward, "I'll pay for it."

I don't say anything. He probably thinks I'm ashamed, so he cuts in before I can say so.

"It's fine, I've got—"

"If you think I'll owe you a favor, you can forget it." I say it and make it sound harsh. I cross my arms and narrow my eyes. Kyle sits up straighter, looking serious.

"You won't owe me anything," he says, nice and simple. Jews are good liars.

"I won't pay you back. You're not getting my money."

"Okay."

"Ever."

"_Okay_."

I still feel my blood running hot. I stare down the Jew. He stares back.

"We need to talk about the bed," he says bluntly. I break our long look and turn my attention to the food in front of me.

"You mean yours?"

"Yes." He rests his chin in his hand. "There's only one. You can't sleep out here every night."

"Yeah, I can."

"You slept on the floor, Cartman."

I laugh, because he's acting like I'm used to living it up on plush cushions and silky canopy beds. I don't get that much comfort and I sure as hell don't get that much privacy.

"I've slept in worse places," I smirk. Kyle takes this long breath and shuts his mouth in a line, tense like a tightrope.

"It's been cold the last few nights."

I shrug. "Cold front. Whatever."

"It's going to get colder."

"How do you know?" I snarl, and glare when he rolls his eyes and runs his hand up his face.

"_Because_, Cartman, it's barely December and last time I checked winter was sort of a drawn-out process. Christ." He pushes his chair back and stands. I watch him tap his fingers on the counter, fast and heavy like he's taking out his anger on the ugly green top.

"Even if you get me a bed I'm still sleeping on the floor," I chirp, and lick the milk off my spoon. Kyle puffs up his cheeks and tenses up his shoulders before turning and leaning up against the counters and shaking his head at me.

"Have you even—I'm letting you stay here. I mean, Jesus. These aren't ideal living conditions for me either, fatass."

The old nickname leaks out and I just drop my spoon and push my bowl away and say, "I'm done. What did you do with my clothes?"

"What?" He blinks.

"I said, my clothes. The ones you bled all over like you were overflowing, those clothes."

He gets nervous, as soon as I say it. He darts over to stand next to me and rubs his hands over his thighs and tries to look stern and superior. But he looks like he's visiting his mom in hospice, I'm some kind of dying thing to him. I've got the pale looks and the empty eyes, he sees, and he thinks bloody clothes will finish up the picture. Send me off down to hell, back where I came from.

"I threw them out. They were ruined, completely." He leans over me and picks up my bowl, walks over to the sink. "Besides, you don't have to wear that kind of thing anymore. We can buy some clothes that you like."

I cross my arms and lean back.

"What if I like dressing like that?"

He shrugs and puts the bowl in the dishwasher.

"You don't, do you?"

"I like some skirts," I say honestly, just annoyed and wanting to feel like I won the argument. Conversation, I guess. He's being too fucking passive and I need to provoke him. He takes another look at me and shrugs again.

"I could buy you one if you really wanted it."

"I don't want one," I say quickly. "Just shut up already." He's giving me too many choices, he knows I haven't had any lately and thinks the pressure on me is funny, probably. I make my face angry and I want to stare him down again and win this time, revenge for before, but he turns and walks away just to come back with a notebook and pen.

"You should write down some things you want," he says sort of gentle, like the voice I get when my men think they're being nice.

"I can remember just fine, thanks."

He examines me, with a doctor's stare, and I feel like a flesh wound or more like a tumor. Fucking Jew is looking for things to heal and I'm waiting for him to start poking and squeezing for the _root of the problem_. If I had to guess I bet he thinks I'm brain-damaged. Bumped the headboard too many times after a few too many long dirty nights. If he's in a more dramatic mood maybe he's thinking heart disease.

If the problem was really hidden anywhere it would be in my appendix, in something stupid that shouldn't even be around anymore. I thought evolution was supposed to take care of shit like this.

He puffs out his cheeks and pulls out a chair. Takes the pen and paper and starts writing.

"What are you doing?" I eye him up and down and shift in my seat.

"Making the list," he says, and glances up at me. He wrinkles his big sharp nose. "Stop it."

"What?" I demand.

He points to his lips.

"Take your fingers out of your mouth."

My hand goes to my thigh and squeezes hard.

"You don't have to point it out every goddamn time, Jew," I spit. I hear him scratching his pen down the list. "And I said I didn't need a fucking list."

"Okay, first of all, it's fucking disgusting. You know—_grime_. You're just eating grime when you chew on your nails like that," he scoffs. His face is caught between these two looks, like Jesus-I'm-just-trying-to-help and you're-a-stupid-piece-of-shit-you-know-that. At least I got him angry. "And second, I don't really give a flying fuck what you said about the list. I'm making one because I know we'll forget something and I really don't want to have to drag my ass to the store again at ten tonight because we didn't get you a toothbrush and you won't use mine because of Jew germs, or something, even though you bite dirt off your fingers."

I don't say anything back. He'll just spew more shit and I'll have to hear his voice in my ears even if I'm not really listening. I know it bothers him, makes him remember I'm older than twelve. He wants me to say something stupid so he can feel comfortable again and not like he's staring at Eric Cartman, Worst Case Scenario. He acts like I opened my mouth and tried to argue with him anyway.

"You don't always have to prove everybody wrong," he says, and he waves to the list. His mouth is puckered like he's tasting something sour. "I mean, look. Let's just go. Grab your coat."

I stare at him.

"Never mind. Borrow mine."

* * *

><p>I take a sip of my ginger ale and press the back of my legs further into the booth. My feet keep bumping Kyle's if I don't keep them there. It's gross. I don't care if I'm already wearing a pair of his fucking Converse. I don't want his feet anywhere near me. He doesn't even care, either way. He's still zoning out with his eyes fixed on his meal.<p>

"What's eatin' you, Jew? Just now realizing you blew four hundred big ones on clothing my ass?" I laugh bitterly and snap my jaw shut on a French fry. His grip tightens around his burger. Fast food was all he was willing to shell out for.

"It was more like five hundred, fatass. I was sort of planning on offering you the bed for the night, but you can forget it. You're such a piece of shit." Jesus, talk about doing a one-eighty. Ever since I spent a hundred bucks at the first store we saw he stopped the tender pins-and-needles routine and got this nice big scowl on his face. The awkward early-morning façade from before got swapped out for the prissy, frugal Jew I was expecting since weeks ago. This is the kike I know how to deal with. Harass, harass, harass, is all I have to do. He's even simpler than I am.

"So now I've gotta sleep on the floor again? Not acting like your usual gentlemanly self, Kyle. Tsk tsk." I wave my finger at him. He scoffs.

"First off, you said you didn't even _want_ to use the bed."

"I changed my mind."

"And second, yeah, you know what wasn't 'gentlemanly'? Spending an hour trying to decide if your new jeans fit too tight around the front. Fuck you, dude."

I grin. Kyle leans his chin in his hand and I feel his foot bump into mine again. Instead of scooting out of the way I kick him back and growl.

"Cut it out. I'm not part of the table, asshole." He rolls his eyes.

"Whatever." He checks his watch. "Let's go. We have to drop this shit off and then I have to go grocery shopping. You can sit in front of the TV and stare at Animal Planet, or something."

"I don't get to pick out what I eat for the rest of the week?"

"You don't seriously want to come grocery shopping with me."

"I don't seriously want to be eating a diet of shitty kosher food for every meal." I snicker when he groans, and reach over to swipe a French fry from his plate, humming and smiling while I pop it into my mouth. He raises his eyebrows. "Oh, what. Like you were gonna finish that anyway."

His face settles back into looking annoyed when he takes another look at the clock on his phone. He wipes his mouth, all of a sudden acting like we've got a deadline for happy homemaking.

"I'll be back in a sec," he says, hurrying out of his seat. "Bathroom."

I watch him walk behind our booth and disappear around the corner. I take one more of the last of his fries and keep my hands in my lap after that. I chew, thinking, and look at the bags of clothes Kyle was keeping next to him, piled on each other, heavy-looking. Bought with the Jew's patience, and fucking with him came as a special bonus, sure. Still nothing I could've got without stealing. I swallow. Not much to listen to in this one star place. Ugly soft guitar music flows out from who knows where, and I tune it out until it's white noise. Nothing left to listen to, then. I stare at the bags.

When I pack it all away and run out on him later, then I _did_ get it all myself, I think. I used him, and his money, just for all that. I won't bother being grateful because I meant to take it all from the start, never gave a second thought to sticking around and playing house. The time it'll take him to realize I'm a leech, parasitic black hole, and open the fridge and find no food and spit out _fatass_ again? I'll leave before he sends me packing and returns my $50 new shoes that are the only thing in the pile I like enough to really smile over.

I move my eyes and look at what's next to his plate. Skinny brown leather wallet, and what the hell, no time like the present to start saving, right? I reach over and get ready to slip a twenty into the sock that I'm wearing.

When I flip it open, parts of it smooth from being used too much, I see his pictures first.

Red, black, blond hair three in a row, smiles to match. Kyle on the left with the other two next to him. Big sunny smiles, too. One's got a guitar strap, one's got no meat on his bones, and I know who they are, or something. Not really. Wide toothy smiles.

The wallet closes really easy and fast, from age, goes back to its snug usual shape, and I don't like it. It's been used too much already but I'm still here using it for the first time ever. It's been too many places I don't know about. Everybody gets angry with used goods, so I'm no different, right. I'm worried about germs, maybe. Kyle should have bought a new one by now. Motherfucking Jew should've bought his ass a brand new fucking wallet, new fresh corners, new leather, maybe no pictures, instead of spending money on me like he's hiding a bank underneath his old clean carpet.

I push the wallet back across the table and when he comes back I sneer and murmur and frown at him until we leave. I make damn sure I frown.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading, again. Did anybody see that cute Kyman scene in Reverse Cowgirl? If you look closely, the magazine under his monster truck one says 'purity rings', making a reference to the Jonas Brothers' episode and implying it's a teenage girl magazine. Sitting in bed gossiping on the phone while eating candy and reading magazines? They're not even trying to keep him in the closet anymore, are they?<strong> **Sorry, I just got really excited about it. :)**


	7. Cocoon

**Super sorry about the slow update, but I've got the next chapter after this planned, so let's not split hairs! Read this, please, please!**

* * *

><p>I don't know what happened. I tried to find my warm patch on the kitchen floor again last night but either it was so damn cold that the pipes froze over or Kyle fucked with it on purpose. I'll bet he can do that. He could probably fix the fucking heat into a nice even flow instead of making me rough it like I'm in an Arctic slum. I brood over it, instead of going to sleep. I don't sleep a second but somehow I wake up at seven and lift my eyes and see Kyle eating at the table. He tells me he's got to work.<p>

"Enjoy the floor?" he adds. I want to say, no, I didn't, I couldn't sleep, you should've remembered to read me _Good Night Moon _and maybe I would've slept better. But I don't open my mouth. I shift around on the floor and feel my back ache. I rub my eyes. There's bags under them.

I don't feel very good.

The Jew puts his dishes in the sink and he asks me to get up, but I don't. I lay there. He gets his stuff together and looks back at me before he opens the door.

"You should get up," he says. "You know, before dinner." I don't smirk or anything. I close my eyes again. He leaves and shuts the door behind him.

I'm alone in Kyle's apartment, could tear it apart looking for what happened to my warm patch of floor if I wanted. I could play something on Kyle's ancient CD player, and I might want to if he had anything worth listening to. I sit up and my back cracks.

I don't want to tear up his fucking apartment or play his fucking music or any of that. Away in the corner near the sofa are my new things, Kyle's new things that he bought and gave to me. I tug at my blankets just a little until they start to tear.

I get up on my feet. I feel kind of woozy, honestly, must be the Jew germs, they held off for the first night because they're crafty, greedy fuckers, and now they're ready for attack. I'll be lying in bed with tubes sticking out of my stomach if Kyle decides to have mercy on me and bring me to a fucking hospital instead of pretending his apartment-cum-foster-home now has a third function. More likely that he'll convert this place to a hostel, too; be too occupied babying the other tenants and he'll leave me to die from one last weak strain of influenza. God knows, he thinks that's all it would take, doesn't he?

I bunch up my blankets and pillows in my arms, my wingspan's hardly wide enough to fit around the bulk but I deal with it, and walk over to dump them on the couch. But there's a box and a few bags, full of clothes, that I put there last night since I didn't fuck around before crashing on the floor. I grunt.

What the hell.

I sigh.

It's all Kyle's shit. I can dump it in his room and be done with it, he's supposed to keep his apartment clean, so it's his fault there's shirts and shorts and shoes all over the place. Thought he was supposed to be responsible.

I walk down the hallway, past the bathroom with the nice shower. Kyle left his bedroom door open.

_This _is where he's got his TV. I knew the fucker wouldn't go without one. Instead he's keeping it locked up, on a cabinet in front of his queen-sized bed. The size of the room is too small, and he's got his bed pressed up against the wall with a window above it. The curtains are dark green like moss. Right now they look more like mold. The TV and cabinet he put right at the foot of his bed, but they're so close together Kyle could reach out with his big toe at night to flip the channels. There's a wardrobe on the other wall, to the left when I open the door, and there's nightstands and shit. The whole fucking room is jam packed. Being in it gives me that feeling like trying to squeeze myself into a skirt that's two sizes too tight.

The Jew didn't even try to stick to a color scheme. Even though the curtains are green the walls are light brown and the bed is navy and grey. It's ugly.

Looks comfy, though.

I toss the sheets on the ground and walk over to the bed. I put my palms on the blanket and run them over it, smoothing out all the small creases. It's nice. Soft.

I'm not shivering anymore. It really is warmer in Kyle's room. Feels like, I don't know. Like I ate a warm meal, chicken pot pie maybe.

Bed looks really comfy.

I look over my shoulder. The doorway is empty.

I'm having trouble not falling asleep on my feet, but I drag myself back and close the door anyway.

I peel back the sheets and get in slow. I feel sore all over and kind of like I slept outside. My legs ache, arms ache, all my insides ache.

My head droops down and sinks in the pillow before I can tell it not to. The bed smells like, what's-it-called. Like baby powder, just a little bit. It's not bad.

I don't want to.

I can't help it. I fall asleep.

But I don't stay that way.

I wake up a half-hour later and I know what kind of day it is. I can't think straight and it's darker than I remember, but nobody pulled the curtains closed. I don't move at all, I can't think of a reason to. And every part of me—even my hands, I pull them out from under the covers real slow and I look at my nails that still have some gold sparkles on them, cracked paint—ugly, ugly, ugly.

One of those days where the fog hangs low around my head and when I walk I'm swimming through swamp water. I stay in bed and I think about my mother and the boss and old South Park and _him_—

God, fuck, _him_. I'm not allowed to stop thinking about _him_. So I do, I do for hours. In Kyle's bed I feel all my muscles clench and I fall asleep sometimes, and when I'm awake I'm still having nightmares.

All the covers drift up until I'm completely underneath them. Overgrown fetus in an inhuman womb.

My eyes shoot open when I hear footsteps muffled through the blue and grey around me.

"Cartman?"

Maybe he doesn't know I'm here.

"Dude, are you sleeping?" Shit.

He pulls back the covers. He stares at me until I sigh and lift my head, only a little, to look at him.

"Are you—did you sleep here all day?"

"No."

He stands there then sits on the edge of the bed.

"Get off," I grunt. Instead he stays still as a statue and looks off into nothing. Either that or he sees something I don't.

"Cartman, you need to get up," he says, all careful. Now he's looking at me, and he touches my shoulder.

_Don't ever touch me when I'm in your bed._

I shake off his hand and slide out of bed. I make sure I don't graze him by accident.

"Fine, I'm up. It's not that late. You're acting like I slept through two-thousand-twelve."

"It's six-thirty, Cartman," he says quietly, "at night."

"It's not a fucking problem. I didn't even sleep for most of it, see? So no problem. Get off my fucking back."

"This happens to you a lot, where you spend all day in bed? Not even sleeping?" He gets a little quieter. "Just lying there?"

I need to do something angry so I step to his nightstand and push his books off the side, and they fall and make _boom_ noises that silence the room like a gunshot.

"I'm _not _your fucking lab rat, Kyle, so don't have me stand here and pick me apart!"

I'm not that upset. But I get like this, on days where I don't get up. I can't help it, like I couldn't help crawling under Kyle's covers. It's just when things aren't fair, it's fairer if I get to fight about it. I never take hits without fighting back. Like with my customers, if my guy doesn't pay full price, I tell the boss, fuck, I get him blacklisted. That's a strong thing to do.

I'm _strong_, goddamn it.

Kyle stands up.

"Why are you like this," he asks.

"You don't have a fucking clue," I laugh, around a mouthful of words I'd say if I thought it'd do any good and if I thought the Jew cared beyond being everybody's savior. But I don't so I swallow them down, tough words I could choke on. "When you, you know, you pulled that gun on me in the hallway, that wasn't the first time I'd had a gun pointed at me. You think it's something you can fix but it's not. You don't have a fucking clue about me."

Kyle looks me in the eyes and I don't know what he thinks of what I said, or anything.

"I never pointed it at you," he says.

And I could tell him right now.

Jack Calloway, blue eyes, short blond hair that used to go past his ears before he got smart and chopped it all off. Strong face with a few crooked teeth but a megawatt smile. On the thin side, had slender muscles. Small scar on his chest the length of a toothpick, got it from a knife fight, but he wouldn't say which one.

Swastika tattooed on his temple.

He was beautiful.

He hated his name. Somebody called him Jack Kerouac, once, and he couldn't stand it, wouldn't be compared to hippies who can't stay in one place. So he had people call him Calloway, his last name, make sure people say it right, you'd better say it right or so help you God.

I heard that and he was perfect. I was thirteen years old when I met Calloway. A month later I was fourteen and in love with him.

I really, really was.

Cartman and Calloway. Used to sound real nice.

I don't tell Kyle any of that.

"I want to sleep," I beg anybody.

I tell him to leave.

Stop making me think about things there's no use remembering.

Instead he opens the door to his bedroom. He pushes me out of it. He walks with me to the kitchen. I think about Calloway while Kyle looks through the cabinets. He starts making pasta. He puts the plates on the table and tells me about the sauce he used, his favorite. He puts on soft jazz.

And then halfway through the meal I tell him the music is shit. I say this sauce shouldn't be anybody's favorite. I laugh at his shirt, which looks stupid today. I start to forget about Calloway. I tell him the story he tells me is ridiculous because people do _not _steal fire hydrants. Do they really?

Usually on days like these I'm back in bed by now. So maybe it wasn't one of those days and instead I was just—really tired. And I got my rest in Kyle's bed.

Kyle and I smile at each other before I realize it.

There's a sinking feeling back in my gut when Kyle gets up after eating and takes something out from a Barnes & Noble plastic bag and puts it in front of me.

_Study Guide for General Education Development (GED) for Adults_

I need to get out of here.

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><p><strong>Argh, it's shorter, but I like it. Also, I have an OC in this story. Since he never appears during the story (only flashbacks) and because Cartman's backstory would be literally impossible to write without the addition of some OCs, I'm hoping you'll give me a pass! In case you can't tell, Cartman's depressed. Surprise. Thanks for reading, and look forwards to a faster update next time! (do these count as empty promises yet)<strong>


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